


You and I go hard (like we're going to war)

by mornmeril



Series: Kink Meme Fills/Prompt Me [5]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Did I Mention Angst?, Grantaire being Grantaire, Lots of it, M/M, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Multi-chaptered fic, Pining, Prompt Fill, Self-Esteem Issues, Silly Boys, Smut, also lots of that, behaviour that could be interpreted as depression, but i promise it's all okay at the end, it might just take you a bit to find it XD, so dark thoughts, srsly you just want to bang their heads together sometimes, there is plot here somewhere amongst the porn and angst, with a happy ending of course
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-28
Updated: 2013-10-15
Packaged: 2017-12-27 21:14:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/983692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mornmeril/pseuds/mornmeril
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/Nayla/pseuds/Nayla">Nayla</a>, prompt will be posted with the last part of the story so not to spoil it.<br/>- This first part also fills the prompt left by an Anon who called themselves 'NobodyImportant', so this is for you too, dear <3! (prompt inside)</p><p>Grantaire would like to say that he didn’t know how it started. That he didn’t know when Enjolras had gone from arguing with words to arguing with kisses, when those arguments-that-were-kisses turned into something that was definitely more than kissing on a table in the back room of the Musain. Truth is, he does know <i>how</i> and he also knows <i>when</i>. What he doesn’t know, is <i>why</i>. And most of all, why it keeps happening...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nayla](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nayla/gifts).



> Hello everyone! As stated on the tin, this is a prompt fill for [Nayla](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Nayla/pseuds/Nayla) and this first part is also a fill for an Anon going by the name of 'NobodyImportant' who wanted Enjolras pushing Grantaire into a table while they argue/make-out. Hope you'll like it <3!
> 
> [Nayla](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Nayla/pseuds/Nayla), dear, as you can see this is going to have more than one part, I hope that's okay for you and that you'll like what I came up with!
> 
> Okay, additional notes:
> 
> Everyone whose waiting for an update for _Lay me on a broken bed_ , don't worry, that's next on my list. In fact, if my Muse plays along, it should work out that I can alternate between updating _Lay me on a broken bed_ and this story.
> 
> Everyone whose still waiting for a prompt fill, don't worry, I'm on that too XD.
> 
> Anyway, on with the show. Title is from ['One more night' by Maroon 5](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7CPYoGtI75Q) .

* * *

In retrospect, Grantaire should’ve realised that he’d pushed Enjolras too far, should’ve recognised the signs - because if you spent almost two entire years ~~obsessing~~ ~~worshipping~~   ~~being in love with~~ paying very close attention to someone, you were bound to notice these things.

But Grantaire, for once, doesn’t notice. Or rather, is helpless to stop it even when he _does_ notice.

Which shouldn’t come as a surprise, really, because Grantaire has yet to find a way to actually make himself stop when it comes to Enjolras. Because all he’s done ever since he first saw him, is _more_ rather than _less_. More staring, more obsessing, more of tracing the lines of Enjolras’ face onto paper and canvas, more fantasising, more pining - just _more_. Because Grantaire is forever caught in the greedy fingers of darkness and Enjolras is the light that he runs towards and never quite manages to reach. Because even as Grantaire can feel himself falling apart under the strain, he still keeps on going, keeps on staring at the sun even as it makes his eyes water and his skin burn. He keeps on wanting and never getting, and he knows that’s the way it’s supposed to be.

*

Joly looks up when Grantaire falls into the only remaining chair next to him and his nose immediately scrunches in that way that it always does when he’s concerned. Grantaire ignores it, his world swaying gently as though he’s standing on a boat and not solid ground, the familiarity enough to take the edge off the darkness that has been gnawing at him all day.

He hadn’t bothered with a jacket, simply thrown on his hoodie when he’d realised that he was late for the meeting and stumbled his way to the Musain. It’s already dark out, autumn having come on hard and fast with a chilling wind that went straight through Grantaire’s clothes and to his skin. But Grantaire likes the bite, likes the way it clears his mind and makes him feel alive, even if it’s just a little bit and not for very long.

But of course there’s a miserable, drizzling rain falling outside now and Grantaire is damp with it and has to rub his hands together to get some warmth back into them. He isn’t surprised, though, not really, because it’s one of _those_ days. Days where Grantaire simply wants to close his eyes again as soon as he’s opened them, where he wants to hide under the covers and simply lie there and wait until it’s over. Days when all he can do is to get so blindingly drunk that he can forget the world, because the world has forgotten him - or rather, has never known he was there at all.

“Are you alright?” Joly asks in an undertone, but even so it makes Enjolras pause pointedly and shoot both of them a sharp look from his position at the front of the room.

Grantaire bares his teeth in what’s supposed to be a grin, but most likely merely looks deranged. Joly must think so, too, because the scrunched up nose is joined by a small furrow of his eyebrows.

“Just peachy,” Grantaire says casually, waving a hand in an unmarked gesture. He nods towards Enjolras, who’s given up on waiting for them to be silent and launched back into whatever rant he’s currently on. “What’d I miss?”

“The commission for film classifications wants to give an animation a higher rating because it features a gay kiss,” Joly says, still looking at Grantaire as if he’s waiting for him to break down and spill all his sorrows right there and then. “You really don’t look so good, ‘Aire. Are you sure you’re alright? Have you eaten anything? Drunk anything that wasn’t alcohol?”

Grantaire rolls his eyes. “I had a coffee this morning.” _With a shot of whiskey - or two._

Joly sighs. “Your blood sugar must be shot to hell. I’ll go ask Musichetta for a chocolate bar or something.”

Grantaire scoffs, but knows better than to go against Joly in mother-hen mode, simply shifts his legs to let him pass as he squeezes through the small gap left between Grantaire’s chair and the table. He ignores Bossuet and Jehan’s concerned looks, instead choosing to focus on Enjolras. He’s immediately drawn in - of course he is - but  after barely ten minutes his desperation for attention has flooded his mouth with bitterness that’s fighting to spill over his lips.

“Are you _serious_?” Grantaire cuts in sharply, his words not as slurred as they could be, but definitely not as clear either. He regrets not having picked up another bottle before sitting down. “You want to _write_ to them? Really?”

And it’s all it takes to make the full force of Enjolras’ attention crash down on him as he fixes Grantaire with a fierce glare.

“I don’t expect them to listen on the first try,” Enjolras says irritably. “It’s just standard procedure. A way to get their attention.”

Grantaire snorts, a sneer tugging at his lips. “You keep believing that.”

Enjolras opens his mouth, already looking geared up to give Grantaire one of his famous tongue-lashings, but Combeferre slips smoothly into the conversation.

“We thought it a good first step,” he says mildly, doing his best to smooth out metaphorical feathers. “We won’t get a permit for another protest for at least two weeks and even if we did, Enjolras can’t afford another arrest this month.”

As tactics go, it’s a good one, momentarily diverting Enjolras’ ire away from Grantaire. It makes Grantaire’s mouth turn down unhappily, makes him want to stand on unsteady feet and yank Enjolras’ attention back, wants to claw it close and never let it go again and fuck all the rest.

“I wouldn’t get arrested,” Enjolras says, rising his chin in defiance the way he always does when he feels chided, uncertain or in any way cornered. It’s petulant and beautiful and displays his neck in a way that makes Grantaire bite his lip, for the fear of biting Enjolras’ soft skin instead. “They didn’t even put down my name last time.”

It’s the perfect opportunity to insert himself into the conversation once more and Grantaire takes it without hesitation.

“Yeah, as if that makes a difference,” he says, not trying to hide the sardonic smile twisting his lips. “They know your face better than their own, at this point. And you know the only reason you didn’t get put on record was because Valjean took pity on you and sweet-talked them out of it when he bailed you out.”

Enjolras’ eyes flashed back to him and Grantaire cheered inside.

“He bailed you out, too,” Enjolras reminds him sharply.

Valjean _had_ bailed him out. Because of course Grantaire had been right there with Enjolras, as he always is, sharing his holding cell and staining the frayed sleeve of his hoodie a dark red were he’d dabbed it against the cut on Enjolras’ cheek. And Enjolras had let him, had almost looked as though he was about to say something that wasn’t a reprimand. His eyes and lips had looked soft and Grantaire likes to imagine that his voice would’ve been the same, had Valjean’s arrival not interrupted them. Grantaire likes the man, but seriously, in that moment he’d wanted to murder him. 

If it had been for Grantaire, they could’ve stayed in that cell all night. Hell, Grantaire had _wanted_ them to stay there. At least this way Enjolras had no choice but to spend time with him and Grantaire wouldn’t have been able to follow his frequent impulse and bolt for one reason or another, trapped as he’d been with bars on either side.

“Writing to them can’t hurt, can it?” Courfeyrac jumped in diplomatically, smiling charmingly in an effort to disarm the situation. “We can always think about a different course of action when they don’t respond, right?”

Combeferre nods and the others quickly hasten to agree, all of them no doubt wary of Enjolras and Grantaire having their millionth, explosive argument. Grantaire feels himself slipping a bit deeper despite the still steady buzz of alcohol in his blood, feels the darkness pulling at him and immediately glues his eyes to Enjolras - not that that isn’t where they usually are anyway. He desperately wishes for them to be back in that cell, locked away from the world. 

It should probably end there, only that it doesn’t.

Because Grantaire is unable to stop provoking Enjolras, his usually sarcastic quips and often teasing prodding turning into vicious jabs dripping with poison and by the time the evening is coming to a close, Grantaire is already well on his way to being bitterly sober once more. Even so, he doesn’t even know what they’re arguing about anymore. 

They go through their usual repertoire involving Enjolras’ naivety, Grantaire’s cynicism, Enjolras’ too narrow views and, of course, Grantaire’s drinking. When Grantaire pointedly grabs a bottle, partly to be contrary but mostly because he _needs_ it to keep going, their friends start filing out, tired of listening to them and probably going off to complain about it all somewhere far away from them. Grantaire hardly notices them go and, he notes with satisfaction, Enjolras doesn’t seem to either.

“Why do you always _do_ this?” Enjolras says and his words are as sharp as ever, but it doesn’t merely sound like anger anymore. “Why do you have to be like this?”

Grantaire laughs, mocking and without humour. “ _Be like this_? Like what, exactly?” He waves the bottle in his hand in a sweeping gesture. “Why don’t you tell me what I’m like, then, Apollo?”

It’s an easy shot, one that never fails to make Enjolras’ eyes flash dangerously. 

“That,” Enjolras snaps, pointing an accusing finger at him. “That’s exactly what I mean. This isn’t you, Grantaire.”

Grantaire fights to keep it all inside, fights to keep the darkness from spreading far enough to spill through his eyes. 

He looks at Enjolras. “Isn’t it?” His voice is low, more vulnerable now, and he hates that Enjolras always breaks him down like this. Hates it and wants it like nothing else, wants it like he wants all of Enjolras, even the bits that destroy him.

“No,” Enjolras says, his tone infused with all the conviction usually reserved for his causes and when he moves, it’s sudden, almost jerky.

Grantaire steps back and bumps into the table behind him, the chairs around it rattling alongside it. It’s a natural reflex at the way in which Enjolras closes the distance between them in all his golden glory, his presence so strong that he needs no physical touch to command people. He never does.

Enjolras yanks the bottle from his fingers.

“This,” he says, all but shoving it in Grantaire’s face as he holds it up for emphasis. “This is what makes you act this way. And you don’t need it, Grantaire.”

Grantaire knows that the blood has drained from his face. Because they don’t talk about it, not like _this_. Not beyond Enjolras’ complaints that he drinks too much and that he should make himself scarce if he doesn’t have anything to contribute other than drunken ramblings. But not like this, _never_ like this.

“You don’t know me, Enjolras,” Grantaire says and it comes out quiet and hoarse. “You don’t know jack shit about what I need.”

“I know you well enough to see when you’re deliberately making yourself out to be worse than you are! And it’s fucking driving me insane!” Enjolras’s grip on the whiskey is white-knuckled. “Because I know that you’re so much better than this! Grantaire, you are so much more than _just this_!” 

The liquid sloshes around in the bottle as Enjolras gives it an insistent shake, but Grantaire hardly registers it over the panic rising within him, clawing its way up through his chest and leaving deep, gaping wounds in its wake. Because Enjolras is wrong, he’s _so wrong_ , Jesus fucking Christ, because Grantaire _isn’t_ better than this. He isn’t better, he’s _worse_. So, so much worse and he’s always thought that Enjolras knew that.

But of course, of course Enjolras wouldn’t see it this way. Not amazing, righteous Enjolras who believes so strongly in everything and most of all the good he thinks is in every single individual, no matter how deeply buried. But Grantaire isn’t good, he isn’t right, because he isn’t _anything_ most of the time. There is a deep, dark hole in his centre that sucks it all up, sucks him dry and, worst of all, sucks the people around him dry as well. It’s greedy and it knows only how to take and not to give, because there isn’t anything _to_ give.

The only thing he does have is his love for Enjolras and it’s the only thing he doesn’t allow himself to be selfish over. Which is also the reason why he can’t let Enjolras believe what he’s saying, can’t let him believe in Grantaire.

He inhales deeply and it makes his throat burn, his chest ache. Fuck, this is going to hurt.

“I’m not one of your fucking causes, Enjolras!” Grantaire says harshly, every word like a knife to his heart. “You can’t just shout and glare at me until I’m fixed, because you can’t fix me! You’re just as naive in this as everything else, for fuck’s sake! You can play the saviour of the world all you want, but in the end the world isn’t going to give a shit and continue the way it’s always done. In the span of things, our lives don’t matter fuck-all and what we do with them matters even less! The truth is, Enjolras, that you’re not doing this for the world, you’re doing it for yourself, because you’re _human_. You’re human and that’s what humans are, they’re selfish bastards whose very nature has been wired to put themselves first and it’s just as true for you as it’s for the rest of us. You help people because it makes you feel needed, you stage protests because you think you’re making a difference and it makes you feel important, and you go around thinking you can fix it all because it’s what makes you feel most alive!”

The silence that follows Grantaire’s outburst is suffocating, squeezing the last remaining air from Grantaire’s lungs, even though he’s already breathing raggedly. He feels like he’s bleeding and there’s no way to make it stop.

Enjolras is staring at him, completely motionless for once. His soft lips are a tight, bloodless line and there’s something in his gaze that makes Grantaire want to fall to his knees and beg forgiveness.

 _Shout at me_ , Grantaire begs silently. _Please, start yelling at me. Insult me, rip me apart, tell me how wrong I am. You_ have _to tell me I’m wrong, because I never, ever want to be right._

But Enjolras, for once, doesn’t yell, doesn’t even raise his voice and when his next words come out low and strained, they’re like punches to Grantaire’s gut.

“Is that really what you think of me?”

Grantaire feels like he’s breaking, but that’s not possible, because no one is as broken as Grantaire already is. It doesn’t make it hurt any less.

“Enjolras,” is all he can say, and he’s definitely begging now.

Something flashes in Enjolras’ eyes and Grantaire knows enough to know that it’s bad, but he only realises how bad when Enjolras has already brought the bottle in his hands to his lips and tipped it along with his head. He visibly shudders as the alcohol goes down and Grantaire is frozen in shock for a horrifying moment, before he lurches forward and lunges for the bottle, wrenching it away.

Despite his panic, he’s careful not to hurt Enjolras, careful not to knock the bottle into his teeth as he jerks it away. Even so, the whiskey spills over Enjolras’ chin and drenches the front of his t-shirt as well as Grantaire’s hoodie - not that he hadn’t been smelling like a brewery anyway.

 _“What the fuck, Enjolras!”_ And it’s Grantaire who’s yelling now. “Are you _insane_? You could’ve poisoned yourself!”

Enjolras doesn’t even flinch. For someone who doesn’t drink, chugging down a whole round of shots worth of whiskey in one go is bound to have an effect and he looks a little less steady now, his eyes bright with an additional light that looks hazy rather than sharp. He looks absolutely wild, as terrifying as he is beautiful.

“Not so nice from the other side, is it?” Enjolras hisses, the flush across his cheeks darker than Grantaire has ever seen it and there is sweat building on his brow now, plastering a few stray golden curls to his skin.

Grantaire’s chest is so tight he can hardly breathe, the desperation and anger so intense he can feel his eyes burning with it. Because of course, _of course_ he’s going to cry, because nothing is ever easy, is it? He’s going to end up bawling his eyes out in front of Enjolras, because he’s weak and needy and spilling tears might even get him some comfort, right? Maybe even a hug? Enjolras is good that way, he might give him a hug - if he doesn’t murder Grantaire first.

He pushes these thoughts down and takes a deep breath, makes a valiant effort to swallow down the sob rising in his throat. His voice, when it finally comes out, is scratchy and unsteady.

“Why can’t you just leave it the fuck alone?”

“Because you can’t keep doing this to yourself! You can be so much more than this!” And finally, finally Enjolras is yelling again, but it brings Grantaire no comfort, because it’s a shout of desperation, rather than anger. As if he can plead the alcohol out of Grantaire’s system, plead to keep it away.

And it’s too much. The last bit of control snaps like a thread already frayed and worn thin, and Grantaire can feel the heat in his eyes become unbearable, can feel the sudden wetness on his face.

“No, I can’t!” he’s shouting again, but it’s choked, the words torn out of him. He’s shouting because it _hurts._ “I fucking can’t, alright? I’ll never be more and I’ll never be good, I’m just _me_ and I’m not enough! I’m not you, Enjolras, I’m not perfect and amazing, I’m not anything! I’m useless and broken and I don’t deserve-”

Enjolras’ hands shoot out and for a moment Grantaire almost thinks he’d going to punch him, but then they curl around his jaw and yank him closer and the force and unexpectedness of the movement makes them both stumble.

They crash into the table mere seconds before Enjolras smashes their mouths together. 

The edge digs sharply into Grantaire’s lower back and makes the table screech across the floor until it hits the wall with a dull thud. Enjolras takes a step closer, his leg easily slotting into the place between Grantaire’s thighs, and he pushes Grantaire against the table, hard. The pain is enough to tear through Grantaire’s shock, enough to make his hands scramble reflexively against the wooden surface to keep himself from ending up sprawled across the top. The edge digs in deeper and it hurts, but Grantaire doesn’t give a fuck.

He’d like to call it a kiss, but it feels more like war, like Enjolras is still fighting only that Grantaire doesn’t know what he’s fighting - if it’s Grantaire, or something else entirely. But the fact remains that Enjolras’ lips are _actually touching his own_ and that alone is so completely, utter unbelievably _amazing_ that everything else just falls away. The world has officially stopped turning - or Grantaire has finally managed to drink himself so far into oblivion that he’s emerged on the inside of his own head. If so, he wants to stay there forever.

Enjolras bites down on his lip and the noise that tears from Grantaire’s throat sounds as though he’s dying, his back arching and his lips parting greedily, already begging for more. The tongue that pushes in a moment later is harsh and unskilled, but it’s also wet and hot and _Enjolras_ and Grantaire is so hard so fast that it sends his mind spinning wildly, more than any drink ever could.

The thought brings with it the sudden realisation that the sharp taste of whiskey is still lingering on Enjolras’ tongue and Grantaire pushes in without thinking, licking the sharp tang from Enjolras’ lips, then tilting his head into a better angle to lick deeper, straight into Enjolras’ mouth, wanting to banish the taste and never, _ever_ have it taint Enjolras ever again.

Enjolras yields, so easily, so naturally that it catches Grantaire so much off guard that he stills for a moment. Enjolras makes an impatient noise that borders on desperate and his lips catch Grantaire’s tongue without warning, sucking it into his mouth in what has to be an instinctual gesture to get Grantaire deeper. It makes Grantaire groan, makes his knees buckle and his cock jerk in the confines of his jeans, pressing against the inside of his fly in a way that’s almost painful.

Enjolras catches him, his hands slipping from Grantaire’s jaw and dropping to his waist, clutching convulsively at his hips and pressing into him, plastering their bodies together without a single bit of space left between them. Grantaire spreads his legs and takes one hand from the table, instead curling it around the back of Enjolras’ neck and dragging him deeper into the kiss. Enjolras takes the invitation instantly, pressing in close into the space Grantaire has made for him and bending his head, parting his lips wider on a moan and letting Grantaire lick across the back of his teeth, the roof of his mouth. He tangles their tongues together and the sound Enjolras makes leaves Grantaire scrambling for his sanity.

He nips at Enjolras’ plush, lower lip and it’s so soft, even softer than Grantaire thought it would be. He sucks it into his mouth impulsively and Enjolras surges against him, their hips colliding sharply and _fuck Christ god_ Enjolras is as hard as he is, his cock pressing against Grantaire’s own painful hardness and Grantaire wonders how the fuck he’s missed it.

Enjolras’ fingers dig deeply into his hips, as though Grantaire would simply disappear if he doesn’t hold on tightly enough, and Grantaire hopes that there’ll be bruises. He wants the marks, _needs_ them. Needs to know that this really happened, wants to trace them again tomorrow and think about this. Enjolras makes a sound that can only be described as a whimper and Grantaire is so in love with him he might actually die from it. 

Grantaire kisses him deeply, pouring two years of pent-up emotions straight into Enjolras’ mouth and Enjolras clutches at him, his hips seeking friction and rubbing against Grantaire in an uncoordinated, clumsy movement. Grantaire moans anyway, because it still makes heat explode in his stomach, but the way that Enjolras trembles against him is enough to make him scrape at least enough brain cells together to realise that this is _Enjolras_. Enjolras who he’s never seen interested in anything but the cause before. He can’t be doing this a lot - and the thought that he’s done it at all, with anyone but Grantaire leaves a sharp, bitter taste in his mouth - especially not judging by the way his movements are so uncharacteristically clumsy, or how he yields so easily whenever Grantaire takes over.  

He’s shaking and desperate and clearly doesn’t know how to go about this and Grantaire’s protective instinct flares to life, sudden and bright. Grantaire’s chest clenches and he instinctively softens their kiss, forces his hand to unclench from Enjolras’ curls and instead lets his fingers sink deeper into his hair and draw a few, soothing circles. He tilts his head to the side and up, bridging their height difference as he kisses him softly, catching Enjolras’ lips with his own and only barely brushing his tongue against the seam. Enjolras shudders against him and carefully starts to follow Grantaire’s lead, copying his movements. Grantaire dares to lean further into Enjolras, letting go of the table and wrapping his free arm around him, his fingers tracing a gentle line against his spine and Enjolras instantly wraps his own arms around him, holding him securely and stopping Grantaire from tipping backwards on the table.

Somewhere in the back of Grantaire’s mind it registers that they’re actually still in public - or in semi-public at the very least. The back room of the Musain is removed from the rest, yes, but that doesn’t mean that it’s not still a café where anyone could walk in at any given time. It’s a good thing that Musichetta is the one closing tonight, so at least she knows not to get involved when Enjolras and Grantaire get into an argument. The thought of drawing back and stopping doesn’t even last a split second, especially not when Enjolras sighs against his lips and presses close in a way that makes Grantaire feel as though he wants to crawl into him.

For a moment, all Grantaire wants is to bury his face in Enjolras long, beautiful neck and breathe him in, to hold him and never let go again. The thought lasts until their hips press together once more, an accidental brush that has their hard cocks rubbing together, searingly hot even through several layers of clothes. And nothing in the world could’ve stopped Grantaire from pushing into the movement, and just like that, the desperation is back.

One of Enjolras’ hands returns to Grantaire’s jaw, curving around it as he licks back into Grantaire’s mouth, just as deeply but rather more skilful than before, swallowing Grantaire’s breathless moan. Grantaire doesn’t think, simply lets himself rest more heavily against the table once more and kisses back. His hand on Enjolras’ back strokes further down, down all the way to the perfect curve of his arse and he gently curves his palm around the closest cheek and presses lightly. Enjolras gasps and pushes into the touch, making Grantaire curl his fingers a little deeper as he guides Enjolras, mumbling “Like this” against his lips, controlling the movement as his own hips roll against Enjolras’ in a slow, deliberate grind that presses them together _just so_ and ends with both of them groaning into each other’s mouths.

And Grantaire wishes they were somewhere, _anywhere_ else than here. Somewhere where there’s at least a bed - or fuck, a couch. Because Enjolras deserves a bed, he deserves so much more than the back room of a café, he deserves- Enjolras rolls his hips again and it’s so perfect, so _good_ , fuck. Grantaire’s head tips back of his own accord and he might have repeated the curse out loud, but he can’t be sure because his head is spinning wildly. There’s not enough air and his chest his burning, everything is burning and he wants so much he might actually go insane with it.

Enjolras leans in and on the next roll of his hips, he sinks his teeth into Grantaire’s neck and it’s sudden and it hurts and it’s the best thing Grantaire’s ever felt. His fingers clench in Enjolras’ hair, tugging sharply and Enjolras moans into his neck, jerks against him and drives their hips together so hard that the table bumps loudly into the wall. Grantaire doesn’t give a fuck, his back is arching against Enjolras and he’s baring his neck and thrusting back and _oh my god_ he’s actually going to come in his jeans and Jesus fucking Christ, judging by the sounds Enjolras is so desperately trying to stifle in Grantaire’s skin and the way he’s trembling and pushing against him like a man possessed, so is Enjolras.

Grantaire tuns his head, dislodging Enjolras form his throat and catches his lips in a harsh kiss, because if he doesn’t get Enjolras’ tongue back into his mouth _right the fuck now_ , he’s going to die. Enjolras comes easily, _willingly_ , falling into the kiss and it’s messy and there’s too much teeth and too much tongue and Grantaire never wants it to stop, ever.

In a sudden burst of creativity, Grantaire wraps one of his trembling legs around Enjolras’ slim hips and the hand that had been clawing at Grantaire’s back moves to clutch Grantaire’s thigh, raking it up just a tiny bit higher and changing the angle of their thrusts in a way that has Grantaire see stars. Enjolras is making desperate, little noises against his lips that go straight to Grantaire’s leaking cock and Grantaire can feel the tingling in his spine, can feel the tight knot of heat in his stomach grow taunt and he’s _so close_.

Enjolras whimpers something into his mouth and Grantaire wants to hear it, never wants to hear anything but Enjolras like this ever again and he wants to _see_ him. He draws back, panting harshly, and feels Enjolras’ own hot breaths wash over his lips, but Enjolras ducks his head before Grantaire can focus properly and hides his face back in Grantaire’s neck. But with his lips now freed, the next, breathless whimper-moan is clear enough for Grantaire to hear and it’s that single, desperate word gasped straight against the throbbing bite-mark from before that sends Grantaire over the edge so hard so quickly that it’s almost painful.

“ _Grantaire_ ,” Enjolras moans again, louder this time and if it were possible for Grantaire to come again while still coming he fucking would.

He knows he’s saying something, moaning it straight into Enjolras’ ear, but he doesn’t know what it is, only that it’s far too loud for the back room of a café and that he couldn’t have made himself care even if an entire army had walked into the room, because Enjolras is clawing at him and shuddering alongside him, flying apart in his arms and moaning Grantaire’s name _again_ , as if it’s the only thing he can say anymore and Grantaire is pretty sure he’s actually sobbing, as though his body has suddenly remembered that he’d been on the verge of crying before and has now picked up directly where it left off earlier.

When Grantaire’s brain finally decides to come online again, he has no idea how he’s ended up flat on the table, only that he’s staring up at the stained ceiling through tear-blurred eyes and that Enjolras is still there, all but lying on top of him and that his lips are on Grantaire’s face, moving gently over his cheek. It takes Grantaire a moment to realise what it means and when he realises that Enjolras is actually kissing his tears away, it only makes his eyes burn more and new ones spill over. Fuck, he hates himself so fucking much.

Enjolras shushes him gently, and it’s so soft and so sweet, just like his lips pressing to the corner of one of Grantaire’s leaking eyes as a delicate hand curves around Grantaire’s jaw, cradling him close. And Grantaire can do nothing but clutch at him, nothing but take it all like the greedy, selfish bastard he is, take it and keep it, even as he feels as though he’s being torn open and still bleeding. His chest feels so tight he doesn’t even know how he’s still breathing and there’s a lingering rushing in his ears from the intensity of his orgasm only moments before. Enjolras mumbles something against his temple, brushing dark wiry curls from his wet face, but Grantaire doesn’t catch it, still completely out of it.

Which is probably also the reason why, when Enjolras suddenly bolts upright, it takes Grantaire a moment - a horrifying, cold, painful moment - to realise that there’s footsteps coming their way. Grantaire scrambles upright and it takes him an embarrassingly long time, so that when he’s finally upright it’s to find Enjolras almost clear across the room, looking almost as destroyed as Grantaire feels, and Combeferre already staring at them from the doorway.

Grantaire’s vision is still blurry and he has to blink a few times, hastily rubbing at his face with the frayed ends of his sleeves. The silence in the room is stifling and when Grantaire looks back at Combeferre, he finds his brow furrowed and a severe look on his face. It’s not quite a glare, because Combeferre rarely ever glares, but to Grantaire’s utter shock it’s directed not at him, but at Enjolras.

Grantaire expects him to tilt his chin up, to stare Combeferre down, but instead he ducks his head and flushes all the way from his neck to his cheeks. He’s also swaying slightly on the spot and it takes Grantaire a moment to remember that Enjolras is _drunk_ , Jesus fuck, how had he forgotten about that? Combeferre must’ve already come to the same conclusion and his look only grows darker, his eyes wandering over the broken bottle of whiskey, over Grantaire’s dishevelled appearance, before coming to rest on Enjolras once more.

“I’ll wait outside,” is all he says and there is a sharpness to his tone that makes Enjolras look even more miserable.

Looking from one to the other, Grantaire’s eyes linger on Enjolras and he’s sure that if it weren’t for the blush, Enjolras would be white as a sheet. One of his delicate hands has a white-knuckled grip on the closest wall and he looks ready to be sick, or collapse or both. Grantaire has to dig his fingers into his own thigh to keep from crossing over to him, to close this sudden, cold distance between them and wrap him back into his arms, to be the one to give comfort this time. Because Grantaire wants to be the one to take Enjolras home, wants to take care of him and tuck him into bed and curl up with him and sleep for a week. And after that, when they wake up together, he wants to do this _properly_ , wants it in a bed and with the sunlight spilling in across Enjolras’ golden curls and with the knowledge that he can take his time and make it good for Enjolras.

But he has no right. No right at all, because this was all one big, horrible mistake and Grantaire probably never hated himself more than in this very moment.

Because he’s provoked Enjolras all evening, he’d hurt him and then Enjolras had lost it and gotten drunk and Grantaire should’ve taken responsibility, should’ve stopped this insanity before it could’ve gotten this far. But of course Grantaire hadn’t done that, because he’s weak and despicable and even now can’t bring himself to regret that it happened. 

Fuck, he needs to get out of here. He needs to be gone _right now_ and find the closest bottle to drown in.

Grantaire feels bile at the back of his throat. He’s utterly disgusted with himself.

“No need,” he hears himself say, unable to look at either of them. He wants to say more, wants to at least look back at Enjolras, to make sure he’s alright - but he can’t. If he looks back now, he’ll see that Enjolras is certainly not alright and then he won’t be able to make himself leave.

So Grantaire doesn’t look and doesn’t say anything else, simply slides from the table and strides from the room on still shaking legs. His eyes are burning - again, still, it doesn’t matter.

He’s already digging around his pockets for some stray euro-notes and manages to extract a few crumpled tens and twenties. He doesn’t look how much it is, simply drops it by the till and grabs the first bottle off the bar that looks still full and makes his way towards the exit. He passes Musichetta, who looks like she’s burning to say something, but then doesn’t and Grantaire is grateful for it.

Grantaire wonders if there’s a way for him to drink until he forgets all about himself, but still be able to remember Enjolras. To remember how he was that night, all his passion for once focused solely on Grantaire and Grantaire alone. He wants to remember Enjolras’ kisses, but forget the taste of whiskey and he wants to remember the sounds he made, the way he’d said Grantaire’s name, but forget all about a shattered bottle on the floor and sudden, cold distance between them.

Grantaire wants to take these parts that he wants to remember and burn them so deeply into his mind that they stay there forever, because he’s so, so sure he’ll never be able to have this again - have Enjolras again. He’s bone-deep, heart-shatteringly certain.

Until it happens again.

* * *

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this took so long! But at least the new chapter is long, so...yay? XD
> 
> Let me also take the time to apologise in advance for the ridiculous amounts of angst. I can only say what I always say: Please don't worry, no matter what happens, it'll all be okay in the end!
> 
> I'd also like to remind everyone that **Grantaire is an alcoholic**. I know that I've got a warning tag for it at the top, but just so it's perfectly clear, as this is a lengthy story and Grantaire's alcoholism is a serious issue and a big part of his character, it features quite a lot and will continue to do so. So please keep in mind that there's **frequent and detailed depictions/thoughts/discussions concerning alcohol addiction**. I'm in no way an expert, but I do have some knowledge and small parts of personal experience in the matter. Still, please know that the last thing I want to do is offend anyone, but also that addictions are not a straightforward thing, so different people deal with it in different ways.
> 
> On that note, I'd also like to mention that I'm not an artist, but my father is and we used to paint together. He's taught me quite a few things and I've watched him a lot, so even though I'm far from completely competent, I do have some limited knowledge about art and the process of creating it. When painting, I used to use mainly oil-paint, so, in case anyone's interested, that's going to be Grantaire's preferred medium apart from the times when he's sketching. If I talk nonsense at any point, please feel free to point it out to me and I'll do my best to rectify it :)!
> 
> Anyway, onwards with the story and I really, really hope it doesn't disappoint <3!

* * *

When Grantaire wakes up, it’s to a hangover from hell. 

He’s lying on the floor, which isn’t necessarily strange or uncommon, but there’s an unfamiliar armchair digging into his back and he’s covered with what looks to be a curtain - his flat doesn’t even have curtains. He blinks a few times, the dull light from the window feeling like a sword piercing his skull and skewering his brain and it takes him a ridiculously long moment to realise that he’s not, actually, in his flat.

The faint sound of rain drifts towards his ears and when Grantaire squints against the light, he finds the outside world painted a miserable grey and droplets of water are chasing each other across the nearby balcony door. And who the hell can afford a flat with a _balcony_ in the centre of Paris anyway?

Something - or rather someone - shifts against his chest and when he tries to look down, he’s rewarded with a face full of long, brown hair. That, at least, is familiar, thank fuck. Underneath the lingering smell of cigarette smoke, the shampoo is unmistakeable and so is the light weight draped across him and the hand twisted into the fabric of his hoodie.

Grantaire groans and it takes all of his will-power to raise an arm that feels like lead. He pokes at whichever part he reaches first - he thinks it might be a shoulder.

“‘Ponine,” he says and it still sounds more like a groan than anything else, his voice shot to all hell.

His mouth tastes like an ashtray and he wonders how much he’d smoked last night - he _hates_ smoking, he must have been utterly trashed last night. And, as memories slowly, very slowly, start trickling in, he’s suddenly sure that there couldn’t have been enough alcohol or cigarettes in the world to make up for the fuck-up that was yesterday. God, why can’t he just pass out again, never to wake up? He’d do the world a fucking service.

Eponine shifts again and Grantaire wisely turns his head this time to avoid the curtain of hair, only to regret it a moment later when it sends a stabbing pain through his temples. Fuck, he can’t even remember when he’d last felt this shit - hell, he can’t remember _ever_ feeling this shit before.

“Where the hell are we?” Grantaire croaks out, coughing when his desert-dry throat protests.

Eponine raises her head and cracks open an eye, before instantly slumping back down on his chest.

“The fuck should I know,” she grumbles, still sounding mostly asleep and on her best way back to it. But then she continues. “Some guy I know has a friend who has a cousin who said they were having a party at their house. I’m assuming this is it.”

Grantaire doesn’t even bother to follow that string of references and briefly closes his eyes as another stab of pain, this time accompanied by a wave of nausea, rushes through his body.

“Why am I not dead?” Grantaire groans, only half-joking.

Eponine jabs him in the ribs, hard. She’s never too tired for that. “Not for lack of trying, that’s for sure, you arsehole. Will you tell me now what the fuck happened?” She props herself up on Grantaire’s chest, her chin resting on the back of her own hand as she looks at him through narrowed eyes. “You called me last night, already drunk off your stupid arse, and I had to drag myself back out to collect you from some seedy place somewhere in the pits. And then you just cried all over me, before dragging me off to a club, where we met that guy I mentioned, which is how we ended up here.” She gives him a pointed look. “So, care to fill me in?”

Grantaire closes his eyes. “Not particularly, no.”

Eponine huffs out a breath and scrambles off his chest and into a more or less sitting position. Grantaire watches her through slitted eyes and makes no move to get up himself, mostly because he doesn’t think he’ll be able to. God, he needs a shower. He feels _disgusting_. He reeks of alcohol and cigarettes, can feel that his t-shirt is still damp from someone undoubtedly spilling their drink - or more likely drinks plural - on him and his boxers are glued to his groin - but no, not going there.

“Seriously, ‘Aire, you were in a bad way,” Eponine goes on, studying him carefully. “What did he do?”

Grantaire looks away, taking in the complete chaos around them, including several other people in various states of consciousness sprawled out across the furniture and floor. He vaguely recognises one or two, the others he can’t remember ever seeing before. He wonders if ignoring the question completely or playing dumb is the better option, and then goes for the latter.

“Who?”

Eponine throws up her hands in exasperation and visibly relents, if only for the fact that she knows pushing him will only have the opposite effect.

“Fine, don’t tell me.” She looks around searchingly. “Fuck, where the hell are my shoes? And you might want to find your hoodie, it’s freezing outside. And raining.” She adds as she casts a look out the window.

Grantaire grumbles something that even he doesn’t understand and starts with the herculean task of crawling out from beneath the curtain and heaving himself into a sitting position. Eponine leaves him to it, looking pale and rumpled but no less light on her feet as she dances in-between empty bottles, pizza boxes and people alike in the search of her shoes. Grantaire has to stop several times for fear of throwing up. It’s a little worrisome, really, because he honestly can’t remember when he’d last drunk enough to actually be sick. Surely not for years now, not since he first started swiping booze from his father’s stash when he was still a teenager.

He spots his hoodie across the room, used as a pillow by a girl he doesn’t know and doesn’t bother to get to his feet, simply crawls the distance and extracts the hoodie without preamble. The girl doesn’t even stir.

Grantaire wrinkles his nose a little at the state of the hoodie, but considering the rest of him, it hardly matters. He pulls it on despite the weird smell and cigarette-burns and has just managed to push his arms through the sleeves when Eponine appears at his side, wearing a pair of candy pink ballerina flats that Grantaire is absolutely certain don’t belong to her. He raises an eyebrow.

Eponine shrugs. “Can’t find my heels, so they’ll have to do. More comfortable anyway, my feet are still killing from yesterday.”

Grantaire doesn’t comment and lets himself be helped upright.

They stagger outside into the rain and Eponine unfolds the umbrella she’s nicked from the hall, pressing in close against Grantaire’s side to keep warm as they hurry to the closest metro station. The rain is relentless and Grantaire’s Converse and the hem of his jeans are soaked by the time they dash into the train, the doors sliding shut right behind them as they huff for breath and laugh stupidly, still nauseatingly hungover and uncaring about the stares they’re getting. They’re used to it.

“You lost your phone, by the way,” Eponine says as they squeeze into a single seat, her short dress riding up her thighs as she wriggles in Grantaire’s lap, trying to get comfortable.

A middle-aged woman glares at them in outrage, as though they’re having sex instead of merely sitting together. They ignore her too, but when Grantaire puts his hand on Eponine’s thigh to keep her dress in place, he doesn’t bother to make it look innocent and the woman huffs and gets up. They giggle some more and it takes Grantaire a moment for Eponine’s words to finally sink in.

He hastily pats his pocket and finds it empty.

“Fuck,” he sighs, but he isn’t really surprised. It’s far form the first time he’s lost something when plastered.

Eponine squeezes him with the arm resting across his shoulders. “Courf said something about wanting to get a new phone, I’m sure he’ll give you his old one.”

Grantaire grimaces. “Yeah, sure.”

He doesn’t say anything else after that, simply leans his head against Eponine and closes his eyes until she nudges him to indicate that it’s time to change lines.

*

At home, the first thing Grantaire does is chuck his clothes into his rickety washing machine, briefly hopping about his bedroom naked to pick some more random articles up off the floor and throw them in as well. He ignores the instructions on the box of the detergent and chooses a cycle at random, the markings on the dial far to faded to be made out in the first place.

He showers and manages to down a cup of coffee before the shaking starts, so he grabs a random bottle - not whiskey, thank god - from the kitchen and settles down with his battered laptop on the couch. He clicks on a random series, paying zero attention to it and still ending up being able to follow the pitiful excuse of a plot. 

He tries his very best to keep Enjolras out of his mind.

After two bottles of wine, Grantaire is ready to climb out of his skin, his head filled with thoughts of golden curls, pale skin and soft lips. He presses his fingers into the bite-mark on his neck, hard enough to sting, and feels his cock twitching at the memory of Enjolras shaking against him and moaning his name. Fuck this shit.

Discarding the laptop, Grantaire firmly clamps down on his thoughts and opens another bottle, then grabs a jacket and slides his feet into shoes a bit better suited for the weather than his drenched Converse, and heads out. If he isn’t going to sleep, he might as well be productive. There’s an assignment due by the end of the week and his professor has been on his case about it for the past month.

He enters the building by sliding his pass card through the slot and typing in the code, shuffling in and blindly following the path to the right door. He’s not the only one there, but that’s hardly surprising. He doesn’t bother greeting anyone, simply drags himself over to his designated area and puts down his bottle next to the easel. Enjolras stares at him from the canvas in front of him and Grantaire very much feels like burning it. In the end, he simply puts it to the side, facing the wall. It’s just one more piece to add to the dozens already piling up in his tiny flat and the storage space given to him by the school.

Taking another deep swig from his wine, Grantaire one-handedly plucks a fresh, different sized canvas from the stack against his desk and considers it for a moment. The topic is some weird bullshit about colour themes and his professor has banned Grantaire from using any form of red, yellow _and yes, that includes gold!_ or even green. Grantaire, at the time, had played with the idea of painting Enjolras entirely in hues of grey and blue just to be contrary, but now, when he starts picking tubes and mixing colours, Grantaire picks amber and varying shades of brown.

He slashes a few, cursory pencil lines across the canvas, working out proportions and outlines, before picking up a handful of brushes and dipping the first one into paint.

And he paints, and paints and keeps on painting, stopping only briefly when he feels himself sobering and his hand giving the first, telltale tremor. Cursing, Grantaire pauses and quickly rifles through drawers and piles of crap until he finds a half-empty bottle of absinthe. It’s not really what he would’ve picked right now, but, glancing at the painting, he thinks it might actually be exactly what he needs to get him through this.

Unscrewing the cap, Grantaire returns to work.

*

He ends up painting through the night until finally passing out on the frayed futon under his desk that he keeps there for exactly this purpose. When he wakes up again, it’s well past lunchtime. Scrambling out from under the desk, Grantaire very pointedly avoids looking at the still wet painting. The sight of the broken bottle and spilled whiskey aren’t something he wants to revisit now; the faint outline of Enjolras’ reflection in it, even less so.

Instead, he stumbles to the vending machine around the corner and gets some coffee and a cereal bar. 

Several fellow art students stumble past him, in and out of the studio in various states of zombification and when Grantaire returns to his work corner, the girl occupying the space next to his greets him with a cheerful wave. Grantaire, glad for the distraction, lets her steal a few sips of his coffee as they chat a little. He ends up doodling in his sketchpad, sitting on the floor next to the girl’s - _“It’s Julie, by the way.”_ \- easel as they complain about professors and stupid assignments. They’re later joined by the perpetually stoned guy across from them and then Feuilly and Bahorel drop by, telling him off for not answering his phone until Grantaire tells them that he’s lost it.

They end up having drinks together at one of the student dives near campus and Bahorel is glued to Julie’s side, chatting her up shamelessly while Feuilly and Grantaire roll their eyes at each other.

By the time Grantaire stumbles home, it’s dark again and he’s way drunker than he’d planned. Feuilly had offered to take him home after Bahorel had successfully hooked up with Julie, but Grantaire had shooed him away.

Now, he’s crawling rather than climbing the stairs in his building and when he reaches the last flight, he nearly slips and tumbles back down when he finds Enjolras seated at the top, leaning against the wall next to his flat with his bag in his lap and a book propped up on it.

“Enjolras,” Grantaire hears himself say - or rather, breathe out in a tone that reflects his feelings a bit too closely for his liking.

Enjolras looks up, torn from his reading, and between Grantaire’s drunkenness and the dim lighting of the hallway it’s hard to tell if he’s imagining the faint blush across his cheeks or not. What Grantaire can see is that Enjolras looks completely wiped out, exhaustion weighing down on his shoulders and his eyes holding none of their usual sharpness.

His hair, instead of tied back in his usual pony-tail, is bunched together in a messy bun, looking as if he hadn’t bothered brushing it and simply scrunched it together to conceal that fact. He looks cold and tired and Grantaire wants nothing more than to tug him into his arms, inside the flat and all the way to his bed.

“What are you-” Grantaire starts, but stops when something sparks weakly in his foggy mind. “The pamphlets aren’t ready yet.”

Enjolras closes his book and rises, ending up towering even more over Grantaire than usual with the few steps still between them.

“That’s not why I’m here,” he says quietly. He even _sounds_ tired.

“Then why…” Grantaire trails off, talking almost too much of an effort at the moment and instead inserts a vague gesture of his hand.

Enjolras folds the book close to his chest, never taking his eyes off Grantaire. “I locked myself out and Combeferre won’t be home for a few more hours.” He shifts slightly and on anyone else Grantaire would’ve called it awkward. “Can I stay with you until then?”

Grantaire’s brain balks at processing that piece of information and decides to instead get stuck on the part where Enjolras said _stay with you_. He scrubs at his face, his hands hidden inside the frayed sleeves of his hoodie, and tries his best to force himself to focus. He’s too tired for this shit and far too drunk.

“I texted you,” Enjolras sounds almost uncertain now. “But I’m not sure you got it.”

“Lost my phone,” Grantaire says and finally, finally manages to get his feet into motion, holding onto the bannister as he heaves himself the last few steps to the top.

“Oh.” Enjolras’ grip on his book tightens. “I can go somewhere else…”

Grantaire shakes his head, instinctive and vehement, sending his world spinning even more. He has to grab hold of the doorknob to keep himself from falling flat on his face.

“No,” he says, just in case that wasn’t clear. “No, don’t go. Just,” He inhales deeply to stave off a wave of nausea. “Stop talking for a minute and come in.”

Despite his claims, Grantaire has to pause for a moment, leaning his forehead against the door. He feels Enjolras step closer, a sudden warmth against his side and when he takes the keys from Grantaire, their fingers brush and Grantaire has to bite his lip to keep a pathetic sound from spilling out.

Enjolras unlocks the door and Grantaire all but tumbles inside. He doesn’t bother to steady his movement, simply lets the momentum carry him the few steps to his squeaky couch and he collapses gracelessly onto it. Jesus, but he feels like shit.

Somewhere far, far away, he hears a door closing and the clinking of keys. Grantaire wants to lift his head to make sure Enjolras is still here, almost ends up mumbling pleadingly into the stained couch-cushion beneath him, when a gentle hand nudges his back, before carefully dragging him into a somewhat sitting position.

“Drink this,” Enjolras orders, holding a glass of water to his lips.

Grantaire obeys without thought, gulping down most of the water, before turning his head away, not unlike a child. Enjolras puts the glass aside and slips onto the couch next to him. Grantaire lets himself fall back down, unable to stay up any longer, and ends up sprawled halfway over Enjolras’ lap. If he had a single brain cell left to spare, Grantaire probably would’ve realised what the fuck he’s doing, but that train has long since departed.

Instead, he snuggles closer, pressing his face into Enjolras’ stomach and inhaling deeply. He never wants to move again, ever. There is a soft pressure against his head and Grantaire thinks it might be Enjolras’ fingers, but that’s probably just wishful thinking.

There’s a sigh somewhere above him. “I don’t understand you.”

“Don’ want you to,” Grantaire mumbles. Because that would be bad. It would mean Enjolras knowing what he’s like on the inside and Grantaire can’t allow that. Enjolras is the light, he needs to be kept as far from darkness as possible, needs to outshine it and keep it hidden in the corners where it belongs. And then, because he’s already on his best way to unconsciousness, and really, what is there left to lose anyway? He repeats the words from before, slurring them straight into Enjolras’ stomach in a way that’s so inaudible it’s a miracle Enjolras hears them at all. “Don’t go.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Enjolras says quietly. “Go to sleep, Grantaire.”

The pressure against his head shifts and Grantaire’s last thought before he finally slips under is that it’s really Enjolras’ fingers, that Enjolras is cradling his head and stroking his hair and if he died now, he’d do so happily.

*

Grantaire wakes to the familiar feeling of his brain being dissected and his stomach doing its best to knot itself in a continuous twist of nausea. As always, Grantaire hates it, hates himself even more and lets himself wish that he was someone else for a moment, before snorting bitterly. Who the fuck is he kidding.

He’s on the couch - great, he didn’t even make it to bed last night, fantastic - and when he shifts around, the quilt slips over his shoulders and - what the fuck? He hasn’t seen that thing in months, where did that come from? And if he was gone enough not to make it into bed, then surely he didn’t take the time to cover himself with-

Grantaire shoots up from the couch and immediately regrets it.

Fighting the urge to be sick, Grantaire does his best to ignore the bile at the back of his throat and squints his aching eyes, sweeping them across the room, not knowing if he really wants them to find what he’s looking for. They don’t. Of course not. He sinks back down.

He has no idea what time it is, but it’s definitely not early, because Grantaire can’t remember a time when he actually woke up in the mornings rather than the afternoons and so he safely assumes that it’s at least midday. When he turns on his side to curl in on himself, he catches sight of the glass of water on the coffee table, along with two paracetamol laid out next to it. He stares stupidly at them for some time.

Enjolras had put out water and painkillers for him before he left and oh my god how pathetic is it that he feels warmth exploding in his chest and a ridiculous smile tugging at his lips. But Grantaire does what he does best and doesn’t give a shit, just keeps on smiling as he downs the water and the paracetamol, before curling back up beneath the quilt Enjolras had dug up from somewhere to cover him with and almost expects it to smell of Enjolras when he buries his nose in it.

It doesn’t, of course, but when Grantaire closes his eyes again, he does it to the memory of Enjolras’ kisses and the soft warmth of Grantaire’s nose pressing into Enjolras’ stomach as he strokes Grantaire’s hair.

*

When Grantaire wakes up a second time, it’s to a different kind of feeling horrible. His hands are already shaking and there are tremors running through his body, making the cramps in his stomach even worse.

“Christ, mate, you look like shit,” Bossuet comments from his place at Grantaire’s feet on the other end of the couch.

Grantaire doesn’t even have the energy to jump in surprise.

Joly appears at his side a moment later, handing him a glass with a perfectly measured out shot of something that definitely isn’t water. Grantaire can barely sit up on his own, but Joly wraps an arm around him and supports him as he downs the shot and fuck, it’s vodka. Grantaire fucking hates vodka and the only reason he probably has it is because Eponine likes to mix drinks with it.

It burns down his throat and straight to his stomach and the relief comes a few moments later. He sags against the back of the couch and lets Joly take the empty glass from his fingers. He’s studying Grantaire carefully, clearly in full doctor-mode, and feels Grantaire’s forehead before encircling his wrist to take his pulse. Grantaire doesn’t protest, the ritual a familiar and long-standing one.

Joly nods, apparently satisfied, but he’s still unsmiling when he addresses Grantaire. “Go and have a shower, I’ll make you something to eat.” He points a stern finger at him. “And you _will_ eat it.”

Grantaire rolls his eyes. “Yes, mother.”

Joly gives him a sharp look, but doesn’t say anything else, simply turns and makes his way back to the kitchenette across the room. Bossuet heaves a sigh and gets up, managing to briefly tangle himself in the quilt and cursing quietly as he stumbles and almost falls, before grabbing Grantaire by the arms and dragging him up as well.

“C’mon, ‘Aire,” he says cheerfully. “Let’s get you to the bathroom.”

Grantaire clenches his jaw, but knows better than to snap and bites his tongue instead. He’s in no position to be cross with them, seeing as they’re the ones who have to suffer Grantaire on a regular basis and so he reduces his uncharitable words to the inside of his head and lets Bossuet deposit him in the bathroom. He strips without thought and staggers into the shower, distantly hearing Bossuet re-enter, no doubt to bring him a towel and a change of clothes, before letting the water crash over his head and simply standing there for a few long, blissful moments.

By the time he emerges from the bathroom, there are three steaming plates on the coffee table - there’s no dining table, never has been - and Joly and Bossuet are sitting close together on the couch. They both look troubled and Grantaire feels instantly bad.

“I’m sorry,” he says, sliding onto the couch next to them. And he really is. “Thank you for coming over.”

Joly sighs and gives him his first smile, weak but sincere at least. He reaches for Grantaire, pulling him into a firm hug and Grantaire sags against him gratefully.

“It’s alright,” Joly says into Grantaire’s shoulder, squeezing him tightly for a moment before letting go. “Now please eat and don’t tell me how long it’s been since you had any actual food, okay.”

Grantaire doesn’t even attempt to puzzle out how long it’s been since he’s last eaten properly, just takes the plate and starts shovelling eggs into his mouth.

“Don’t forget that it’s Courf’s thing tonight,” Joly says after a while, between bites.

Grantaire pauses with the fork between his lips for a moment, trying to remember what the hell Joly’s talking about. “Thing?”

Joly casts him a concerned look and it’s Bossuet who answers. “It’s his birthday tomorrow. The party’s tonight. At the Corinthe.”

The food turns to dust in his mouth and Grantaire can’t even think about eating any more. Of course he’d forget Courf’s birthday, of course. Because Grantaire is a useless, selfish bastard and the worst friend imaginable. 

There must’ve been something in his expression, because Bossuet reaches over to squeeze his shoulder and Joly looks ready to hug him again.

“Don’t worry about it. We included you in the present. You just have to sign your name onto the card.” It should be reassuring, it’s meant to be, but it just feels like a punch to his gut instead.

Grantaire’s eyes are already burning in that familiar way he hates so much and he puts the plate down without a word, wanting nothing more than to disappear. He goes to the kitchen, which hardly helps but it’s the next best thing and, fuck, he’s dying for a drink. The vodka’s still on the counter from before and Grantaire doesn’t even give a shit how much he hates it, just grabs it and gulps down a few mouthfuls until his wobbly nerves settle a little.

His eyes don’t burn any less for it.

Joly and Bossuet don’t follow, they know better, and Grantaire simply slumps against the counter and concentrates on breathing.

Birthdays are one of the few occasions that manage to drag Enjolras out and away from his laptop and his books. Which means he’ll be there tonight and Grantaire wants to see him so badly it’s like a physical ache, but at the same time he dreads it like nothing else. If there was a way to have him see Enjolras without Enjolras seeing him, Grantaire would take it in a heartbeat.

He just hopes it won’t be a repeat performance of Bahorel’s birthday a few months ago, because that had been bad. Maybe not quite as bad as Jehan’s birthday before that, but bad enough. But then Grantaire remembers that this time, this time he’s going to arrive there and know what Enjolras tastes like, what he _sounds_ like when he shakes apart in Grantaire’s arms and moans Grantaire’s name, and Enjolras will know as well.

Enjolras who’d come to him last night because he’d locked himself out and really, now that he thinks about it, Grantaire balks at it because what the actual fuck? Why would Enjolras come to _him_ of all people? Literally every one of their friends must be higher up on Enjolras’ list than _Grantaire_. So why come here? Why now?

What had Enjolras _actually_ come for? To talk? Or maybe, maybe to _do it again_?

Grantaire bolts upright and grips the counter tight enough to turn his knuckles white.

No. No, no, no, he won’t even go there, because that’s just plain ridiculous. Enjolras had been shaken up and drunk the other night, clearly not in his right mind and he must regret it, must be disgusted by what happened. He had to be.

Grantaire knows that Enjolras is human, as much as he sometimes has trouble believing it, and he’s barely out of his teens - _twenty-one, he turned twenty-one this summer and his present is still in my wardrobe, right underneath that grey hoodie I gave him last winter when he’d been cold and I haven’t washed or worn it since_ \- so it’s completely natural for his hormones to wake up at some point, because apparently they haven’t done that a lot before now. And Grantaire had just happened to be there when he’d been riled up and out of it and it was completely natural that he’d snapped, but that doesn’t mean anything.

And it certainly, one hundred percent, doesn’t meant hat it’s going to happen again. They aren’t even really _friends_ and Enjolras isn’t someone who likes spending time with anyone he doesn’t know, so he sure as hell isn’t going to do _that_ when it’s clear that he doesn’t even _like_ Grantaire. 

He’s just some pathetic drunk who happened to become part of the group because of his pitiful pining and everyone just feels too sorry for him to throw him back out. The only thing he’s good at is spilling his bitterness and arguing and, he supposes, he’s also pretty fucking good at partying as long as he’s still able to stand somewhat upright. It’s no secret that he provides good entertainment when he’s currently not residing in one of his black holes and has reached the right amount of inebriation - which is why everyone always seems to know him, weird as it is that Grantaire hardly ever knows them.

But, in any case, whatever Enjolras had come for yesterday, Grantaire had once again failed him and failed him quite spectacularly at that.

Enjolras had come to him and Grantaire had been too drunk to even talk to him, instead he’d babbled nonsense at him, crawled halfway into his lap and passed out. So in the end, Enjolras, who’d come to Grantaire for help, had ended up taking care of Grantaire instead.

And here Grantaire bemoans the fact that Enjolras can’t stand him, when all he does is pull stunts like this one. God, Grantaire hates himself so _fucking much_.

*

Grantaire ends up stumbling in late, of course. Because it’s not enough that he forgot one of his closest friends’ birthdays, he then had to go and fall asleep, only to wake up when it was already pitch-black outside. Which means that he’s missed the optional get-together at Courfeyrac and Marius’ place and just takes enough time to dig out something that’s a little less ripped and paint-strained than usual, before rushing from his flat.

God, he misses his phone. At least like that, one of the others would have been able to call him to remind him to be on time - usually Joly or Jehan. Christ, but could he be any more of a loser?

The Corinthe is loud and hot. Music bombards him the second the bouncer waves him in without a second look and there’s people _everywhere_. The strobe lights are bright enough to blind as they sweep across the crowd in irregular intervals and Grantaire stops briefly to scan the crowd from his still elevated position on the landing. He’s intimately familiar with every sticky corner of the club and so it doesn’t take long to find everyone.

Enjolras’ eyes immediately zero in on him when he reaches the booth, but Grantaire does his best not to look at him, afraid that he won’t be able to look away again once he gives in. Instead he sets to greeting everyone. He hugs Courfeyrac and it’s probably a little tighter and longer than usual in the face of the guilt that’s still insistently gnawing away at him. But Courf doesn’t comment on it, just squeezes him right back and smiles brightly as he shouts “Thanks for coming!” into his ear. Grantaire then continues his round, kissing Jehan’s cheek, then Joly’s and giving Bossuet a one armed hug. He hesitates briefly when he catches Musichetta’s gaze, but she yanks him forward and squishes him against her chest, making another weight lift from his chest that he hadn’t even been fully aware of.

He ruffles Feuilly’s hair, laughing when he makes a face and earning himself a kick, and Bahorel punches his arm with a toothy grin. Cosette smiles and blows him a kiss, too far crammed into the booth to be able to reach him and Marius waves from beside her. Eponine, once again masochistically positioned right at Marius’ side, barely manages a quirk of her lips, her eyes dark with heartache and Grantaire’s chest clenches in sympathy.

Combeferre is his usual stoic self and they exchange a nod, slightly awkward from Grantaire’s side. He’s unable to stop thinking that the last time they had seen each other Grantaire had been sprawled across a table in the back room of the Musain, looking a mess from a tryst with Combeferre’s best friend.

He and Combeferre have never been particularly close, or as not-close as is possible in a tight group such as theirs. It isn’t that Grantaire doesn’t like Combeferre, he’s just, admittedly, a little intimidated by him and can’t help but think that Combeferre doesn’t much approve of Grantaire’s pathetic behaviour and outright obsession with Enjolras. Not that he’d ever given any real indication, but Grantaire can’t help but be convinced and, really, who can blame him? 

But Combeferre is a hard person to read and Grantaire has never quite managed it, so he can’t be sure. He just hopes that this weird, subtle tension of theirs holds for a bit longer, because the last thing Grantaire wants is for it to snap now when this, whatever the fuck it may be, with Enjolras is already confusing the hell out of him.

Enjolras, who’s still looking at him.

If Grantaire felt awkward greeting Combeferre, it’s nothing compared to what he feels greeting Enjolras. Normally, he’d settle for some sort of stupid joke, or a simple smile-that’s-trying-not-to-be-too-earnest, but Grantaire feels absolutely drained and can’t really scrap together the energy.

What he wants to do is to fall pathetically at Enjolras’ feet and bury his head in his lap while asking for forgiveness - for saying what he’d said that night at the Musain, for not being strong enough to stop things from going too far, for his terrifying lack of regret that they did, for being a useless drunk unable to be there for Enjolras when he needs him, rare as the occasion might be; and just, for being himself, really, full stop.

There must be something in his expression, something maybe a bit more desperate than usual, because Enjolras’ look is suddenly soft, nothing at all like his normal harsh fierceness and much closer to the way he’d looked at the Musain or, Grantaire realises, last night when he’d asked Grantaire if he could stay with him. Grantaire doesn’t have a fucking clue what it all means, he just knows that he’s helpless against it, even more so when Enjolras shifts, deliberately making room for him and, when Grantaire fails to react, unceremoniously yanks him onto the bench.

They end up pressed together, hot and impossibly close. Enjolras’ hand is still wrapped around his wrist and when he feels Enjolras’ thumb tracing a line against his pulse point, Grantaire thinks his heart might actually leap from his chest. Enjolras is studying him, careful and intent, and Grantaire has no idea what’s going on in his head. What he does know is that there must be no mistaking what he’s feeling right now and when the caress comes again, deliberate or no who the hell knows, Grantaire barely bites back a desperate sound as pleasure sparks across his nerve-endings and pools hotly in his stomach.

He needs a fucking drink.

But he needs Enjolras more, would always _always_ need him more and if it were a choice, he’d choose him every time. Of course, desire and reality are two very, very different things and for Grantaire, the two are complete strangers, barely even having nodded at each other in passing once or twice. They’ve never truly met before and it was stupid to think that they would now.

With his mad dash to the Corinthe, Grantaire didn’t have the time for a drink and now his blood alcohol is starting to dip dangerously. He’s sobering up, and sobering up fast. His head is doing its best to kill him and the strobe lights are suddenly stabbing painfully at his eyes. He can feel the tremors starting to crawl up through his body and chasing away most of the tingling pleasure from just a moment ago. He’s shaking and there’s no way Enjolras can’t feel it.

Enjolras frowns, his fingers now ten, still pressure points against Grantaire’s skin, his pulse beating erratically underneath, and Grantaire knows he’s not going to let it slide, damn him.

The booth is far enough removed from the closest speaker to make conversation possible, if not easy. But Enjolras has never had a problem being heard and he certainly doesn’t now, his voice strong enough to battle the loud beat of the music.

“Are you alright?” 

Grantaire can already taste the lie on his tongue, forms it without thought as he forces his lips to curve. It’s not a real smile, but a sharp twist of his mouth, bitter and familiar. A shudder runs through him and he feels cold, his stomach turning harshly and Grantaire swallows.

“Fine. I just,” _need a drink._ He bites back the words at the last possible moment, because they’re too honest.

He doesn’t want to say _need_ , because it’s not need as in wants, it’s need as in essential. It’s need because he’s shaking with it and need because he knows he can’t go on without it. It’s pathetic and it’s true, so he doesn’t say it.

“I’m gonna go get a drink,” he says instead, his gaze slithering away expertly to avoid Enjolras’ intent look.

Enjolras doesn’t release him. “Alright. I’ll come with you.” 

_Please._ “No,” Grantaire says, and even overlaid by the thumping music it sounds cutting. He feels vulnerable and desperate which in turn makes him tetchy and always puts him in the mood for a fight. “Don’t do this.”

Enjolras’ frown deepens and his lips thin as he presses them together.

“Don’t do what?” he asks, not without a bite. “Come with you to the bar?”

Grantaire twists his wrist from Enjolras’ grasp, forever his own worst enemy as he continues to do things that are the opposite of what he wants. It helps, Grantaire thinks, because he’s never gotten what he wanted and like this, at least, he keeps himself from hoping, keeps himself that small step away from complete destruction.

When Enjolras’ fingers slide from his skin, it’s like a physical ache. It feels like punishment and Grantaire deserves every bit of it.

“Don’t act like you give a shit,” he snaps.

It’s petty and cruel and Grantaire doesn’t mean it. Because Enjolras gives plenty of shits for a whole lot of things that the average person doesn’t even think about and even though Grantaire is bitter about never getting enough of his attention - because Grantaire is a bastard and just wants it all for himself and fuck everyone else - he knows that Enjolras cares a great deal about his friends and would literally do anything for them. And, Grantaire supposes tentatively, he cares enough about individual people that he probably doesn’t want Grantaire to end up in a ditch somewhere, even though they aren’t really friends. Grantaire knows that if he ever asked for Enjolras’ help, he’d get it without question, simply because Enjolras is just that amazing and for all his cold exterior, he has a golden heart and would give his last shirt for any poor old sod on the street.

For all that he sees the brief flash of hurt in Enjolras’ eyes, it hurts Grantaire a hundred times more, like impaling himself on his own sword, if he had one. He can’t take this anymore and fuck, he really needs that drink now.

Fleeing is easy and Grantaire has an abundance of practice at running away, it’s one of the very few things he excels at. With Grantaire, it’s not fight _or_ flight, it’s fight _and then_ flight, and he knows that it drives Enjolras up the wall whenever he does it. And Grantaire can see that Enjolras knows, that he can tell that Grantaire is readying himself for it like an antelope being preyed on by a lion.

So when Grantaire gets up, swaying briefly as harsh nausea rips through him, Enjolras rises with him. He’s so close, Grantaire thinks dazedly, close enough for Enjolras’ hot breath to brush his clammy skin.

Grantaire can feel several pairs of eyes resting on them, while doing their best not to be caught doing it. It’s an old game and Grantaire doesn’t have to look to know that there’s trepidation on each of their friends’ faces, waiting for them to erupt as they always do. And Grantaire is so tired of it, but will never, ever stop, not if it’s the only way to keep Enjolras from forgetting he exists in the first place.

“I’m sorry,” Enjolras says abruptly, almost too quiet to be carried over the music, but firm and sharp.

Grantaire freezes, wants to gape and frown and blink all at once, because what? 

“What?”

Enjolras glares at him, looking not at all apologetic. “I’m sorry,” he says again. “For the other night.”

And fuck him if that wasn’t the killing blow. Grantaire had known of course, but still, hearing it out loud is always that much more devastating. 

He feels himself shut down, feels his walls slam down as his lips twist into a sneer.

“Believe me, I know.” He tears his eyes away and he’s shaking, all the broken pieces that make him appear whole to the world crumbling apart. “Just forget it, alright?”

Grantaire doesn’t look at Enjolras again, too afraid of what he might see and finally flees, like the coward that he is. 

The alcohol he downs only moments later brings the same, bitter relief as it always does, despised but desperately needed. Soon, his world has gone from painful brightness to a dull throbbing. He hates himself and so he drinks some more, which makes him hate himself even more viciously and the only way to numb it all is to keep drinking. 

And so he does.

*

Eventually, Grantaire is drunk enough to fake his way through a few laughs and smiles and when Eponine drags him out on the dance floor, he comes willingly. It’s the place least likely to hold Enjolras, but still gives him the opportunity to spend some time with the others and at least pretend that he’s a good friend.

The music is good and does a good job of drowning out his own thoughts, thumping along with his heartbeat and blending into the buzz of alcohol. The lights are as bright as ever, but the pain in Grantaire’s head is gone and they keep the darkness away, shining intensely enough to stay with him even when he throws his head back and closes his eyes.

Dancing is good, dancing is _great_. Grantaire loves it, loves the way it makes him feel and it’s one of the reasons he spends most of his time partying in the first place.

He twirls Jehan, smooching his cheeks and making him giggle, wiping away his painful smile as he distracts him from Courfeyrac charming two blond girls off to the side. It’s often hard, thinks Grantaire, to remember that everyone else is struggling with their own shit when one is so busy drowning in one’s own darkness. He doesn’t really know what’s going on with Jehan and Courfeyrac, partly because neither of them have mentioned anything about it to him and mostly because Grantaire, as much of a liar as he may be, knows that he’s been in a bad way lately, worse than usual and so he’s not necessarily surprised that he’s out of the loop.

Grantaire wonders if his recent, more vicious bouts of self-destruction are the reason why Enjolras is suddenly so determined to make him talk about it.

He pushes those thoughts down and lets out a breathless huff of laughter when Bahorel unceremoniously yanks him into a headlock, rubbing his knuckles across Grantaire’s scalp and bellowing something ridiculous over the current song.

But even with his heart feeling that tiny bit lighter, surrounded by his friends and fuelled by alcohol, there’s only so much it can do for Grantaire and eventually, it’s all a little bit too much. Too bright, too unsteady, too loud, too many people - just too much of everything.

So he slings an arm around Eponine, shouting to her that he’s gonna pop outside for some fresh air, waving her off when she offers to come with him, and picks his way through the densely packed room, squeezing past sweaty bodies and dodging swinging glasses.

The air outside is like a slap in the face and Grantaire realises too late that he forgot to take his hoodie and jacket, leaving him in short sleeves and with sweat drying rapidly against his skin.

He’s chosen the back entrance instead of the main one, wanting to avoid the flock of smokers and just people in general for a little while. Despite the biting air, Grantaire lets himself fall against the brick wall of the narrow alley, the cold seeping almost painfully through the damp line of his t-shirt against his spine. He watches absently as a stray cat rummages through the bins opposite him, looking in vain for something to salvage, but finding nothing and taking off to a better location, closer to a restaurant or café.

The back door opens and Grantaire tenses, looking up as the music from inside briefly spills out, before being cut off once more as the door falls shut.

Enjolras doesn’t look the least bit surprised and Grantaire realises he must have followed him, especially judging from the fact that he’s holding Grantaire’s hoodie, which he holds out to Grantaire as he takes another step, akin to some sort of strange peace offering.

Grantaire’s head is spinning a little, but his hand is steady as he accepts the hoodie, grateful for the excuse to hide his face for a moment as he pulls it on, trying to compose himself as best he can. He’s not very successful.

When he emerges from the hoodie, the thicker fabric shielding him from the worst of the biting cold of the bricks behind him, Enjolras is right there, close enough for Grantaire to touch, were he crazy enough to reach out.

Even in this murky half-light and with Grantaire confused to all hell, he can’t help but trace each and every of Enjolras’ familiar features with his eyes, still unable to keep his breath from catching at how beautiful he is, even after all this time. And Christ, he wants him so fucking much, it’s insane. Grantaire’s insane. Insane and helpless and so desperately in love.

“I do care,” Enjolras says, quiet but firm, picking up a thread of conversation Grantaire has to grapple with for a moment to be able to follow. “I care, Grantaire, you _know_ I do.”

His stupid, drunk brain successfully yanks the appropriate reference from his scrambled thoughts and he sighs, already feeling the ground thinning beneath him as Enjolras once again pushes him onto unsteady territory.

“Of course you do,” Grantaire says and it comes out gentle, heavy with unspoken affection and frightfully honest. “I was just being a prick. Don’t listen to me.”

Enjolras shakes his head and he looks torn, but between what, Grantaire isn’t really sure.

“I don’t understand you.”

Grantaire gives a wry smile. “You keep saying that.”

Enjolras fixes him with a fierce stare. “I know, because it’s true.” He shifts a little. “But it’s true for both of us.”

Grantaire is definitely too drunk for this. “What’re you talking about?”

“I’m talking about how you’re so convinced you know everything about me. And I’m telling you, you don’t. And I’m not,” Enjolras visibly struggles for a moment and it looks almost painful. “I’m not saying that some of the things you said that night weren’t true, but-”

“No,” Grantaire cuts him off abruptly, feeling sick in a way that has nothing to do with alcohol. “Enjolras, no. Just no, alright? I’m fucked up, you know I am. What I said to you, it’s bullshit.”

Enjolras looks down and Grantaire wants to scream, because this is all wrong! Enjolras isn’t supposed to fall for his shit, he’s supposed to argue his point until Grantaire feels just that little bit less desperate and his tongue stops burning from bitter words.

“It’s not,” Enjolras says quietly. So quiet, so different from his usual, fiery proclamations. “Not all of it, anyway. And it’s good.” He passes a hand over his brow, brushing back a stray curl and seemingly frowning at his own words for a moment. “Good that you see it, I mean. Sometimes,” He drops his hand and looks at Grantaire, open and vulnerable in a way that makes Grantaire’s chest clench and his breath catch. “Sometimes I think you forget that I’m human and it’s good to know that I was wrong about that.”

_You weren’t,_ Grantaire thinks desperately, but doesn’t say it. He shifts, lost, and it’s his turn to fiddle with his hair, roughly sliding his fingers through the wild curls and messing it up further. “I should’ve said it before, but for what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

Enjolras looks a bit thrown at that. “About what?”

_About being who I am._ Grantaire shrugs. “Everything, really. I- You were drunk and I should’ve- I don’t know, I should’ve been…” _better_. He trails off, the word seeming horribly inadequate, much like himself.

Something flashes through Enjolras’ eyes, a familiar fire and yes, here we go, there goes his head, chin rising in defiance as the full effect of Enjolras’ glare loosens some of Grantaire’s muscles. This he knows, this he can deal with.

“You’re not my keeper,” Enjolras snaps. “I picked that bottle up of my own free will. If you can drink yourself into oblivion, so can I.”

Grantaire can feel his jaw clench, his eyes sharpen, more than a little alarmed at that statement. “Are we back to you trying to fix me? Because I think I’ve already told you it isn’t possible.”

Even in this light, Grantaire can see the flush darkening Enjolras’ cheeks  and fuck, how is Grantaire supposed to keep it together like this? When he knows now, what those soft cheeks feel like. He wants to touch him so badly he’s forced to curl his hands into fists.

“I don’t want to _fix you_ , Grantaire!” Enjolras pushes the words out like a whip, sharp and suddenly much louder as they crack through the quiet of the alley. “You aren’t broken!”

Grantaire jerks away from the wall and towards Enjolras. “But _I am_!” he can’t but shout, hoping that Enjolras will finally, _finally_ get it. “When I tell you I can’t be fixed, it’s not because I’m not broken, it’s because I’m _too_ broken! Don’t you see that?”

Enjolras stares at him as though Grantaire’s just slapped him. “Grantaire-”

Grantaire cuts him off. “Fuck, I know you’re a stubborn bastard, but seriously Enjolras. Drop it. This isn’t for you to obsess over.”

It’s clear from the deep flush and the light in his eyes that Enjolras is about to explode spectacularly.

“You’re not one of my fucking projects, Grantaire!” he yells and Grantaire can see that his chest is heaving with anger. “I’m worried about you, for fuck’s sake! I want to _help you_!”

Grantaire’s heart lurches painfully in his chest, he’s as elated as he’s frightened. His eyes are starting to burn and Grantaire fights down the stupid, _stupid_ tears as best he can.

“You can’t fucking help me!”

“Because you won’t even let me _try_!”

“You’re right!” They’re both breathing harshly now and Grantaire feels himself right at his breaking point, the same as it had been that night at the Musain. As used as he is to fighting with Enjolras, this isn’t what they usually do, not at all. They argue frequently and viciously, yes, but it’s never this personal, never this raw and Grantaire is completely out of his depth. He feels like he’s bleeding again and there’s nothing left but the truth. “I don’t want you to try, because you’ll fail, alright? You’ll fail and you’ll feel like it’s your fault when it’s _not_. This is all me, Enjolras. All of it! It’s me being a fucking mess and there’s nothing anyone can do about it! So please, will you just leave it the fuck alone!”

“No!” Enjolras protests and it’s with all the vehemence he possesses, all this power that is usually reserved for raging against inequality and whatever else he deems is wrong with the world. “I’m _not leaving this alone_ , I’ll never leave it alone, not until you give me a chance!”

The sight of Enjolras like this, of him fighting _for Grantaire_ , it’s more than he can handle. He wants to scream in frustration, wants to cry and wail and fall into Enjolras’ arms. He wants for Enjolras to always be like this, to talk about Grantaire like he _matters_ , while at the same time he’s so _fucking terrified_ of disappointing him in a way that will make him finally leave and never come back.

“Please,” Grantaire begs, sounding every bit as desperate as he feels. “ _Please_ , don’t do this. I’m not worth it, I don’t-”

And then, suddenly, Enjolras is right there and he’s kissing him, hard, cutting him off just like he’d done the other night and it’s enough to knock the breath straight out of Grantaire’s lungs and freeze him into place.

“Shut up,” Enjolras pleads, pressing the words straight into Grantaire’s breathless mouth as he softens the kiss, gently cupping his jaw. “Stop talking like that.”

And then he kisses him again and Grantaire simply…melts into him, his lips opening on a desperate sound and his fingers sliding into soft, golden curls and grabbing tightly onto Enjolras’ hip. And it’s still a little sloppy and a little too hard, but it’s so purely Enjolras, so passionate and so honest, that it’s still the best thing _ever_ and Grantaire never wants to do anything else for his whole, miserable life. All he wants is to keep kissing Enjolras, to keep being the centre of his attention, to feel with every slightly clumsy stroke of Enjolras’ tongue that there’s nothing else but this right here. Because Enjolras doesn’t do anything by halves. He throws himself into whatever he does with everything he has and kissing, apparently, is no exception.

Enjolras presses in close and Grantaire wraps his arms around him, cradling him against his body in a way that leaves no space between them. He steps back and Enjolras follows, crowding him against the wall, the cold bricks a shock compared to the hot press of Enjolras’ body. Grantaire tilts his head a little, stretching slightly to better reach Enjolras’ mouth and licks inside hungrily, swallowing Enjolras’ breathless moan.

Enjolras’ hand moves from Grantaire’s jaw to the back of his skull, curving protectively around it as he surges forward into Grantaire, pushing him more solidly into the wall and making Grantaire’s head fall back. Warmth bursts in Grantaire’s chest at the gesture and he kisses Enjolras all the harder for it, desperate to get as close to him as he possibly can.

Grantaire feels Enjolras push against him, hot and desperate, sliding his hips against Grantaire’s in a deliberate grind and holy fucking shit, he’s doing it exactly the way Grantaire had showed him to the other day and Grantaire might as well just pass out from how fucking hot that is. Their hard cocks meet and rub together, making Grantaire groan and Enjolras make one of those desperate, whimper-moans that make Grantaire ache with desire. Christ, he wants him so fucking badly he’s going to die. Enjolras will fucking kill him with his soft lips and his hot tongue and his desperate sounds and by using moves that Grantaire has taught him.

Somewhere in the distance, a car beeps and someone’s shouting and it’s enough to return some of Grantaire’s senses to him. Because no, not again, not like this. Not in some seedy alley behind a night club. If this is really happening again, and oh my god Grantaire can’t even wrap his fucking mind around that right now, then it’s not going to be here.

This time, he wants Enjolras on a fucking bed, _his_ bed.

Whatever the hell this is, it’s not happening in the dark and dirt. For once in Grantaire’s life, he’s going to do something right. Because Enjolras deserves so much more than this, deserves so much more than _Grantaire_ , but if, for some insane reason, he wants to actually do this with Grantaire, then Grantaire will do fucking right by him this time.

And so Grantaire does his best to force his hands to unclench from where they’ve been clutching at Enjolras’ hips and instead slides them upwards, smoothing over Enjolras’ arms and chest and he gently cups his face. Drawing back is downright painful and Grantaire immediately leans back in to press softer, smaller kisses to Enjolras’ mouth, unwilling to part from him completely.

Enjolras curls into him, barely allowing Grantaire enough room to speak as he chases his lips. Grantaire holds him tightly, so afraid that the second he lets go, Enjolras will come to his senses and leave without another thought. Grantaire’s heart is hammering loudly in his chest as he turns his head to slide their cheeks together and press an open-mouthed kiss to where Enjolras’ own pulse is beating wildly beneath his skin. His next words are barely a murmur and Grantaire almost hopes Enjolras doesn’t hear them so he can’t say no.

“Come home with me.”

* * *

 


End file.
